


A Day Like Today

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, Genderswap, I wrote about lesbians and so can you!, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-18
Updated: 2011-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-24 18:06:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jane knew that Sherlock had a heart, always knew—and always knew that Sherlock cared for Jane, even if it was only like caring for an extension of yourself, like an extra arm or a leg. Sherlock knew that Jane should have run, because there was no way that Sherlock would let her get away now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Recommended listening: A Day Like Today - Tom McRae , just to get you in the possessive Sherlock mood.
> 
> Also a big thanks to Kaja, who has been looking over this fic for me. <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock had called Jane an idiot many times that evening, _practically everyone is_ , but after this stunt Jane wasn’t too sure who was really the idiot—or maybe they both were, because Jane Watson _should_ have run.

Jane Watson should have run.  Attending to a wounded soldier, she was, when the bullet lodged into her left shoulder. She knelt to the ground, her breath uneven, screaming, and holding onto her shoulder under the Afghan sun. The doctor in Jane told her _Pressure, apply pressure_ , while the soldier inside screamed _Please God, let me live._ That thought occurred just a moment before she blacked out—

Jane Watson should have run. Waking up each morning plagued by another day of therapy and pain; they told her that the limp she had developed was all in her head. _Crazy_ , she thought. The pain was real, why couldn’t they understand? But Jane saw the x-rays, she knew that physically there was nothing that should be causing her pain. Post -Traumatic Stress Disorder, they told her. She was also left with an unsightly starburst scar splashed across her shoulder, a shoulder which ached at any sign of rain or cold weather, which came along far too often in the London winter.

To look into her desk drawer each morning and see her gun, cold and lonely was a guilty temptation, one that she fought off daily. Jane constantly looked around her tiny flat—the flat she could hardly afford on just her army pension, boxed in, drowning in the insipid walls and sinking into the carpet. How easy it would be to just _disappear_.

Shaking her head, Jane closed her desk drawer and stared at the blinking cursor on the screen of her laptop open to an empty new entry to her blog. _Nothing happens to me_ , the mantra repeats in her mind like a broken record.

Jane Watson should have run. The day Mike Stamford led her into the laboratory at St. Barts, _much different from my day_ , and she met Sherlock Holmes, the raven haired enigma behind a microscope. The specifics behind their first meeting were so peculiar that it should have tipped Jane off—but it was something new, thrilling and hell, if she could get a flatshare with anyone at this point, she would. No matter how brief, mysterious and bloody amazing Sherlock was upon first meeting ( _Afghanistan or Iraq?)_ , Jane was enthralled, drawn to her like dragonflies to a light. Jane Watson, despite her usual defenses, agreed to meet with Sherlock the next evening.

Jane Watson ran. Ran so fast through the dark building in order to find the woman she had just met, a woman idiotic enough to get into a cab with a serial killer. Sherlock had called Jane an idiot many times that evening, _practically everyone is_ , but after this stunt Jane wasn’t too sure who was really the idiot—or maybe they both were, because Jane Watson _should_ have run.

But now here she was after shooting and killing a man, waiting for Sherlock outside the yellow caution tape. Jane thinks she should be a mess right now, feeling guilty and regretful, but she is neither. They both smile and giggle as they depart the crime scene—perhaps that’s inappropriate behaviour, she has in fact just killed a man. If Sally Donovan ever found out, Jane Watson would be the next person being called a psychopath.

Jane’s mornings no longer plagued her with therapy and pain, her limp is completely gone on most ( _good)_ days  and it seems as though she is keeping her therapist, Ella, happy by documenting her rendezvous (as Harry likes to call them) with Sherlock on her blog. Life is worthy of continuing. She no longer thinks of the gun she keeps hidden in their flat as a means of suicide, instead a means of warding off whatever bastard Sherlock decides to chase after that night. Jane Watson no longer wanted to run.

 _Sure_ , Sherlock was a tad possessive when it came to the time and attention of Jane—interrupting dates (and playing a hand in getting said date kidnapped, although Sam had been courteous and mildly understanding), showing up unannounced at the surgery because she was _bored_ , and demanding that Jane sleep as little as possible while cases were on, among other things.  But moving in with Sherlock started a new era in Jane’s life, an era that brought adventure, excitement, _danger_. Danger was not something Jane could turn her back on.

However, this is getting to be a bit much.

Sherlock Holmes should have run. Jane relinquished the only opportunity she saw and charged at Jim Moriarty’s back, wrapping her forearm around his neck. “Sherlock, run!” But Sherlock did not run—the only chance, she thought, for one of them to make it out alive. If it was going to be one of them, it might as well be the woman saving Scotland Yards’ arses day in and out.

As Jane’s semtex wrapped parka is ripped off her frame and thrown across the tiled floor, Jane stumbles, leaning down against the wall. “Are you alright, are you alright?” It was the first time Jane recognized the look of anguish upon Sherlock’s face that was directed at someone. But not _just_ directed at someone, but honest and true. Of course Jane had seen this face many times over the past few months; sometimes it was during one of her mighty sulks, sometimes while she was shamming to get information for a case. Jane knew that Sherlock had a heart (no matter what she previously told Moriarty), always knew—and always knew that Sherlock cared for Jane, even if it was only like caring for an extension of yourself, like an extra arm or a leg.

That was how Sherlock looked at Jane when she thought she wasn’t looking. It was almost _warm_? But Sherlock insists that she does not _do_ warm, therefore in order to keep Sherlock from implementing a major sulk, Jane will appease her in whatever delusion she wants her to believe.

“I refuse to let you romanticize me Jane, and if you continue believing that I _care_ then you really are an idiot like the rest of the world. I was beginning to believe you were above that.”

If a self-professed sociopath wanted to convince Jane that she had no feelings and didn’t care, well then, that self-professed sociopath was failing miserably. The thought that Sherlock felt that need to act under a sociopathic guise and that people went as far as _believing_ that guise confused Jane, but if letting on to Sherlock that she believed her made Sherlock happy, then she would continue to pretend. Sherlock was smart enough however, to know that Jane wasn’t buying it, therefore worked even harder to maintain her veil of antisocial behaviour.

After Moriarty returned to the pool, Sherlock set off the semtex, sending the entire recreational building into ruins—although Jane was still dizzy and off-balance, she shot up to grab ahold of Sherlock and drag her into the pool. Jane held onto Sherlock with all the strength she could manage, while attempting to keep them above the water. _Swim to the side of the pool_ , _keep ahold of Sherlock_ , was the only thought in her mind as she kicked and dragged Sherlock until she could press her up against the pool wall.

Sherlock, although still conscious, felt as though her head had been hit by a freight train. Her dark matted curls clung to her face and forehead and she stared at Jane, blood dripping down her face, holding her up in return as they both pressed their bodies to the wall. Jane dropped her head into the crook of Sherlock’s neck, leaning against her shoulder, trying to keep her composure.

“You should have run…”

They both made it out relatively fine—Jane needed four stitches under her eyebrow, while Sherlock stayed in hospital overnight, convinced only by Jane, due to exhaustion, dehydration and a nasty bump on her head-- one which left her confused and mumbling for hours after the explosion.  

Jane rubbed circles on the back of Sherlock’s palm. She was obviously distressed and absolutely bored from her stay in the hospital, even if it had only been six hours so far.

“Only a few more hours, Sherlock” Jane tried reassuring her.

Sherlock whipped her head to look at Jane, “I am _fine_! Are they that inadequate that they do not realise that I am fine. You are my doctor, tell them I am fine so we can go back to the flat and I will rest there.”

Her plea was almost half convincing, despite the fact that Sherlock was only here in the first place because she could not take care of herself and liked playing games with consulting criminals. “No, you will stay here until they release you and then when we get home you will rest. No cases—“

“Jane! I will _die_ of boredom.”

“You said it yourself, only a fool doesn’t listen to their doctor.” Jane winked. “Just get to sleep, I’ll be here when you wake, then we’ll see about getting you out of here, you git.”   

Sherlock shook her head, turning away from Jane and closed her eyes. Jane continued her ministrations on the back of Sherlock’s hand. It was _almost_ calming, _almost_ , Sherlock thought as she began to doze off.  Her thoughts slowed. She was only doing this so that the boredom would not rot her brain, not for Jane… _why should I care about—_

Less than eight hours later, Jane was helping Sherlock up the stairs of the flat, even though Sherlock was being stubborn and insisting that she was _fine_ and needed no assistance. Mrs. Hudson was already in the kitchen, standing over the kettle and began speaking the moment they both entered the flat.

“…and I’ll make you both tea, just this once, dears you need your rest…”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” Jane said, attempting to reassure Mrs. Hudson that they really were fine. Sherlock walked silently over to the sofa and plopped down, beginning to sulk once again. Some things never change.

A few hours later, after Sherlock had fallen asleep, stretched out on the sofa, Jane walked to the couch, lifted Sherlock’s legs and sat down. Sherlock lifted her head slightly to look at Jane, but covered her eyes quickly, as the light did no favours for her migraine. “Ugh.”

“How are you feeling?” Jane said, massaging Sherlock’s ankle.

“The only thing I can tell you is that if you do not shut the light off, I will murder someone.” Sherlock growled.

“Sorry, sorry.” Jane moved quickly off the couch to switch the light off and shut the window curtains. While Jane was up, she walked into the kitchen to grab a match, striking it upon the matchbox and lighting a candle. Jane walked back to the sofa, setting the candle down on the coffee table and moving Sherlock’s legs once again to sit down. Sherlock sat up, turned around and rested her head on Jane’s lap.

“Shhhhhh.” Jane whispered as she stroked her fingers through Sherlock’s hair, massaging her scalp. Sherlock made a sound that reminded Jane of a purr—if this were any other time, Sherlock would not hear the last of it. Soon enough, Jane angled herself on the sofa, readjusting Sherlock, lanky limbs and all, slightly so that they both fit on the cushions, Sherlock lying on her back between Jane’s legs, head resting on her softening stomach.

Sherlock reached up to grab the hand still playing with her hair and pressed the palm against her cheek. Her face was warm but not from fever, the feel of Jane’s cold hand against her skin caused her breathing quickened just a bit before slowing down again. Their breathing meshed together, synchronizing to the same _ba-bump_ , _ba-bump_ , _ba-bump_ , until Jane fell asleep.

Sherlock knew that Jane would regret the sleeping position—a strained neck meant a testy mood and achy shoulder in the morning, but Sherlock was selfish, and wanted to take advantage of the unexplained sense of intimacy. This felt _right_ for the first time in a very long time.Sherlock gently pulled Jane’s hand away from her face and placed a gentle kiss on the back of her hand before dropping their linked fingers onto the sofa.

Jane Watson should have run, but there was no way that Sherlock would let her get away now. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane lowered her head so that their foreheads and noses touched ever so slightly and started into Sherlock’s penetrating gaze. _She always looks at me like her very own lab rat._ Jane thought as Sherlock wrapped her arm around the back of her neck and pulled Jane down for a kiss.
> 
>  _...like she can see right through me._

Sherlock sat restlessly in her dressing gown on the sofa pressing her palms to her eyelids. _Bored_. It had been over one month since the explosion at the pool. Moriarty seemed to be a distant dream-- completely vanishing and leaving behind no trace of evidence. He was right when he said he didn’t like to get his hands dirty. Apparently his little game was on hold for now.

Jane was also insistent that Sherlock take time for herself-- she insisted that half the reason she had to stay in the hospital in the first place was because Sherlock failed to take care of herself. In the back of her mind she thought as though her body had failed her-- this body, _it was just transport_ , and the fact that it had given into exhaustion was betrayal.

The only positive that had come out of her time off was the sudden twist in her relationship with Jane. The morning after they returned to the flat, when they both slept practically on top of each other on the sofa, had been an interesting one. As per usual, Sherlock was the first to wake-- she was usually one to flee after elongated periods of closeness, but this morning she turned gently in order not to wake the good doctor. Since when did she _care_ about waking Jane? Sherlock stared long at the calmness that overtook Jane’s face. Her eyelids were limp, lips slack, brows relaxed as opposed to the furrowed nature that took over when she was concerned.

It was odd, Jane showed concern for _everyone_. She was a doctor and a soldier no less, having faced illness and injury day in and day out it was only logical that she would get used to it and cause no reason for concern.   _It must hurt_ , Sherlock thinks, to concern yourself with the disparity in the world-- to sympathize with almost everyone. Sherlock could not imagine, her emotional intelligence was nothing compared to her intellectual competence. So what Sherlock was feeling at the moment was unlike the stony exterior that she had put up years before.

Sherlock hadn’t realised she had been staring far too long, even if Jane was asleep. She quickly turned her attention to the clock hanging across the sitting room-- half nine. Jane probably wouldn’t be asleep much longer. Sherlock rested her head down on Jane again, this time on her chest. She was able to make out a steady heartbeat-- _ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum_. A heart that she _cared_ for? No. A heart that would be hers, that was already hers. And it _did_ hurt.

Jane woke not fifteen minutes later with an obvious ache in her shoulder just as Sherlock suspected, although only her posture upon waking gave it away. She looked down at Sherlock, whose head still lied upon her chest.

“Morning.” Jane said, groggily. The sudden change in Jane’s breathing and the vibration it caused against Sherlock’s ear made her smile.

“Your heart rate is seventy-four beats per minute, up from sixty-seven while you were sleeping.” Sherlock rattled off without turning her head to look at Jane. Her cheek remained flat against Jane’s chest.

Jane pulled her right hand from between the back of the sofa and the cushion and rubbed her eyes. “...Interesting?”

Sherlock went on, “You are completely normal, normal in almost every way, you _should_ be boring...”

“Well thanks!” Jane went to move off the sofa, attempting to move Sherlock’s head off her chest. Sherlock only tightened her grip around her.

“No, you are missing the point! Stop being dull and listen!” Jane settled back down. “Good. Now. You _should_ be boring, but... somehow...” Sherlock stopped to think before she spoke again. She had never felt as though she had to censor herself in order to please anyone-- yet here she was, thinking. “Somehow you aren’t, you astonish me.. daily that is, and I find myself _caring_.” She caught her breath. “...about you.”

“I have these... thoughts”, Sherlock continued, “whenever you’re on a date or at the surgery or out buying milk-- how I hate anyone and everyone who gets to have you at that moment.” Her eyes never once met Jane’s. “And Jane, you told me I should have run while I had the chance, but perhaps you are the one who should have run because **_I want you_**.”

Jane looked down at Sherlock and began to web her fingers in the knotted curls. “Sherlock, I’m not going anywhere.” Sherlock’s grip around Jane’s back loosened a bit--

“Good...”

“But I will not quit my job or give up milk forever just because you want me, you insane creature.”

“But...”

“No.”

They laid there in silence for nearly fifteen more minutes before Jane stopped twirling Sherlock’s hair and began to sit up. Sherlock obliged her, sitting up as well, but there was something, something in her eyes that showed doubt and that was definitely an emotion that Sherlock disliked immensely.

“For the record, this does mean that you can have me.”

Sherlock grinned.

And Sherlock kept on grinning, up until the three week point, when her mood seemed to go down more than just downhill, but crashed at the bottom of a fucking cliff.

Lestrade had texted numerous times in the past five weeks, but each case was subsequently more dull than the last. She knew that Lestrade was taking it easy on her-- not inviting her on exciting cases. It was as if he now viewed her as something fragile when he knew bloody well that had never and would never be the issue. Sherlock did dangerous work and being sent to hospital was not _that big_ of a consequence for impetus of working on a case.

Somehow it had become impossible for anyone to understand that if she didn’t receive intellectual stimulation soon her brain would rot. Was there a language barrier that she was unaware of? Yes, that had to be it. She knew everyone around her, Scotland Yard, Mycroft, even Jane at times, was an idiot— but how could they fail to see this? If a serial killer didn’t make their way out of the woodwork soon, she would have to start committing the murders herself; at least then there would be some form of--

Sherlock was almost too wrapped up in her own thoughts to realise that Jane had walked over from the kitchen table and was now hovering over her. Jane dropped to the floor in front of the sofa, resting her cheek on Sherlock’s knee. “Stop thinking.” she said, lying there for a moment before trailing kisses behind her kneecap and up the inside of her thigh. “I can practically see the gears turning, that can’t be comfortable.” The path of kisses continued up and down her thigh as Sherlock looked down at Jane and then sat back. “Yes,” Sherlock growled.

Jane continued the assault on Sherlock’s inner thigh, leaving light bite marks in its wake. Sherlock’s breathing hitched and heart rate quickened. Moving Sherlock’s dressing gown to the side, Jane moved upwards towards her sharp hipbone and began to nibble and suck. Sherlock’s posture slouched as she reached her hand to the back of Jane’s head, grabbing hold of a handful of her blonde pixie hair.

“Jane…” Sherlock moaned, breathlessly. Sherlock could run through the streets and alleys of London without so much as losing her breath, but simple touches from Jane left her weak at the knees and gasping. Her back arched minutely.  ”…please.”

Jane broke free from the grip Sherlock had on the back of her head and looked up at the mad woman, and turned her attentions away from the already forming love bite under Sherlock’s hip. Sitting back so that she could kneel, Jane rubbed her palms over Sherlock’s thighs, before leaning forward to ravage her neck and shoulder with soft bites and kisses. Sherlock took this as an opening to reach behind her and unclasp her bra, letting the straps fall from her arms.

Running her hands over Sherlock’s hips and up her torso, Jane stopped to grab Sherlock’s bra and toss it on the ground beside her before climbing onto the sofa reclining her lover so that she could lie on top of her. Sherlock looked up at Jane, her dark blue eyes darker, half lidded and her cheeks flushed.

Jane lowered her head so that their foreheads and noses touched ever so slightly and started into Sherlock’s penetrating gaze. _She always looks at me like her very own lab rat._ Jane thought as Sherlock wrapped her arm around the back of her neck and pulled Jane down for a kiss.

... _like she can see right through me._

The kiss was bruising, Sherlock began nibbling and then sucking at her lower lip, demanding control-- even though it seemed like Jane would be doing most of the work for the time being because hell, Sherlock was intoxicating. Jane allowed Sherlock’s tongue to slip past her lips, exploring, leaving her panting. Jane broke the kiss and began trailing down Sherlock’s chest, stopping to give careful attention to each breast. She shifted to her left nipple and gently rolled her tongue around it until it was erect. Sherlock’s breathing was laboured, and let free almost inaudible moans. Jane’s left hand came up to gently grab Sherlock’s other breast, caressing with passion while the other reached below the band of her panties.

Sherlock’s grasp on the back of Jane’s neck shifted towards her hair, and began tugging her downwards. “ _I need you... so much closer._ ” Jane groaned as she shifted with Sherlock’s insistent pull.

Lowering herself so that she was once again eye level with Sherlock’s hip, she grabbed hold of Sherlock’s panties and began to slowly pull them down. Sherlock huffed, obviously aroused and impatient. Her cheeks were crimson, made even more intriguing by her sharp cheekbones and her mouth parted in order to breathe-- as though she had completely forgotten how to. Sherlock had always called breathing boring, but Jane would bet Sherlock wouldn’t be singing that same tune soon enough.

Jane kissed down Sherlock’s abdomen once more, paying special attention to the love bite previously left, and stopping just short of the trimmed nestle of curls at the meeting of her thighs, bringing her fingers down to glance over Sherlock’s clitoris. Sherlock arched into the touch, biting her lip at the sudden contact. “Mmm... more.” she made out, just barely.

“Patience, my love, is a virtue.” Jane whispered, eye level with Sherlock’s cunt. Jane parted Sherlock’s lips slightly before dipping her tongue to flick across her clit. Sherlock grabbed onto the back of Jane’s head with one hand, while scrambling to find purchase in the cushion of the sofa.  

Jane continued her oral attentions to Sherlock’s clit while slipping two fingers into her wet heat. Sherlock grunted at the sudden change-- attempting to push herself down further onto Jane’s fingers. Jane insistently bent her fingers at the second joint in order to find the spot inside Sherlock which caused her the most pleasure. Sherlock’s breath was uneven, at every flick of Jane’s tongue or twitch of her fingers would send her moaning. Jane pumped her fingers out, Sherlock groaning at the loss, but nearly cried out when a third finger joined.

Jane looked up at Sherlock whose eyes were closed and teeth biting viciously against her own bottom lip. “Are you oka...”

“Don’t stttop-- please, close.”

Jane crawled up Sherlock’s body, leaving her digits inside her, only stopping once they were eye level once more. Sherlock took no time to push herself up as her lips crashed with Jane’s. Jane’s consistent fingers caused Sherlock to moan into the kiss-- before stopping entirely to lean her head back. Taking the opportunity, Jane dropped her head and biting the crook of Sherlock’s neck.

“Oh God, Jane!” That send Sherlock over the edge as her climax washed over her-- leaving her panting and mumbling Jane’s name over like a prayer. Jane pulled her fingers out of Sherlock, and leaned down to kiss her again, waiting for Sherlock to regain her post-coital composure.

A few minutes later Sherlock chucked, “This is quite obscene when you think about it.”

Jane, who was still resting on Sherlock’s chest looked up at her. “What is?”

“You’re still completely dressed!” Her chuckled progressed into a giggle, which burst into full-on laughter. Jane sat up, picking Sherlock’s dressing gown off the floor and throwing it at her lover’s face.

“Prat.” They smiled at each other.

Sherlock sat up to slip her dressing gown back on. As Jane went to move off the sofa, Sherlock grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her back down for one more kiss. “Mine.” She whispered. Jane pulled back, leaning her forehead to Sherlock’s and grinned.

“Yes, it seems a bit that way, doesn’t it?” Jane stood up from the sofa. “Now stop your sulking!” she winked, as she left the sitting room.

Although Jane had already left the room, Sherlock whispered again, “Mine.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time I've ever written smut. /facepalm.
> 
> Hopefully this will get easier.  
> A big thank you to Kaja, Harry and Jess for encouraging me through this chapter. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Recommended listening: A Day Like Today - Tom McRae , just to get you in the possessive Sherlock mood.


End file.
